Rebel at Spruce High (Spruce Texas Romance #5) - Daryl Banner Page 0,15

long a time, wondering why Vann would be so rude to me. I didn’t do anything wrong. He could have easily let Hoyt feed me a whole Thanksgiving dinner if he wanted. Why did Vann get involved at all, if it was just going to piss him off afterwards?

I make it to fifth period pre-calculus for its last ten minutes, grabbing an open seat in the front. Ms. Ducasse, who seems to be aware somehow of the reason for my tardiness, doesn’t interrupt a word of her lesson as she comes up to my desk and lays a syllabus upon it, then returns to the front of the classroom, still talking. As I clutch the sheet of paper, my mind is consumed with thoughts of Vann and how he spoke to me. I keep seesawing between feeling mad about it, or sympathetic to him. I wonder what the principal is talking to him about right now.

I peer over at my classmates, revealing half of them staring my way. I’d bet a month’s worth of lunch money the fight in the cafeteria was the talk of the town before the fifth period bell rang.

Then my eyes catch sight of someone else at the opposite end of the classroom: my stepbrother Lee, who isn’t giving me the time of day. He probably heard every single version of the story, too. And I’m sure the worst version will make it to my stepdad’s ears, and then to my mom’s. There’s no avoiding it; I’ll have to tell them and endure a ceaseless barrage of questioning later.

On my way to sixth period, my stomach growls. To be fair, I’d only eaten one or two bites of a chicken strip before everything went down. Kelsey ate more of my lunch than I did. Is it too much to ask to slide into one of the other lunch periods for a do-over? And for that matter, shouldn’t the principal have made a better effort in separating me and Hoyt schedule-wise? It’s the first day, after all, and a change would be easy. Didn’t he notice Hoyt and I not only share two classes, but also the same lunch period?

I reunite with Kelsey in sixth period: yearbook. It’s held in what feels like a closet, fitted with shelves of old yearbooks and four computers lined across a squatty table with four desk chairs. Fittingly, there’s only four of us on the yearbook staff, the other two of whom are each at a computer, racing to finish two games of Solitaire, since our yearbook advisor Ms. Reyes isn’t here yet. Ms. Reyes makes an art out of running late to everything. Once, her first period journalism class waited for fifteen minutes before she rushed in with a half-spilled mug of coffee, cockeyed glasses, and her hair a shocking mess. No one ever seems to mind. She’s been head of yearbook and journalism for over fifteen years.

A frowning Kelsey occupies the third chair, and she’s got a lot to say. “Principal Whitman is a big, useless turd.”

I sit on a nearby crate full of printing paper. “What’d he say?”

“Other than interrogating me on who pulled the fire alarm? I truly wonder, had you lost a limb or something, if he would have even noticed. The fire alarm? Really?” She smacks her forehead and fumes at the floor. “If there’s one thing I hate about being a part of normal-people world, it’s the damned unfair treatment of anyone who isn’t in football.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Normal-people world?”

“On the streets, things made better sense. I knew my place. I could fend for myself in any manner I chose. If someone messed around with my food, oh, you’d better bet they’d meet Betsy.”

Betsy is the name of a pink switchblade she’s had since she was nine—or so she says. I never know if she’s carrying it on her, and I never ask. If she’s caught with it, I’m sure she’d be expelled or worse, as weapons aren’t allowed on school grounds, so I just assume she keeps it at home. Stashed under a pillow, perhaps.

“But here?” she goes on. “In normal-people world? I just can’t stand how many restrictions there are. My dads remind me every day, too. Can’t do this. Can’t do that. Law this. Felony that. Blah, blah. It really sucks sometimes to have an ex-cop for a daddy.” Kelsey eyes me suddenly. “What did the principal ask you?”

I suddenly find I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I